


Falling Blind

by AkumaStrife



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Modern AU, all my les mis fics and titles are like hallmark romcoms sorry, blind date au, this is just short and sappy im sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 20:39:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10048355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkumaStrife/pseuds/AkumaStrife
Summary: Combeferre doesn't often agree to being set up on blind dates, but when he does they generally go poorly. But being set up with the WRONG blind date is certainly new.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [infinite_mirrors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinite_mirrors/gifts).



> well this is only two years and two weeks late, but happy birthday darling <3

Combeferre should’ve never agreed to this. He feels stupid sitting alone, dressed up (if you could even call it dressed up when it’s only a crisp button up under a new sweater vest. The excuse to buy a new sweater vest is the only part about this whole charade he likes,) and picking at the bread basket nervously. He doesn’t even know why he’s nervous. It’s only been… well, a while, since he’s been on a proper date; let alone a date he’s actually aware he’s on—Bahorel might never let that go. That sort of thing could happen to anyone!

He checks his watch again, folding up his sleeves in the process because nerves always make his clothes feel a bit stuffy. His date is late. Very late. Of course he is. This is what happens when he lets his friends set him up on blind dates and he doesn’t know why he allows it. Knowing his luck, the guy might not even show up. He texts Enjolras as much, frowning when Enjolras has little in the way of encouragement. He’s not even sure why he’d texted Enjolras with this. Feuilly would’ve been a better choice.

He’s just about to when the door to the little restaurant flies open, bringing the late February breeze with it and… a rumpled young man. He has rosy cheeks, his curls askew, and grins two parts frazzled and one part apologetic at the Host. The young man’s coat is undone and his scarf looped incorrectly.

Combeferre is a little charmed. In a detached, uninvested sort of way.

He’s still looking, completely uninterested of course in this whirl-wind of a human being, when the man looks around and locks eyes with him. A mistake, because then he makes his way over to Combeferre’s table with a careful smile and says, “Sorry, but I’m supposed to be meeting someone? I’m Courfeyrac?” as he offers his hand.

Combeferre takes it because he’s not sure what else to do. Courfeyrac looks so hopeful, and the name is ringing a vague bell, so maybe…

“Combeferre,” he replies, offering a polite smile in return and gestures to the other chair. So his blind date isn’t so bad looking; objectively, of course. 

There’s a curious look in Courfeyrac’s eye, a tilt to his head that seems befuddled by something, but in the end just says, “I’m late,” cowed and somehow not at all as he finally settles with great fanfare.

“Very,” Combeferre confirms. But his smile turns a little more genuine and doesn’t apologize about the empty break basket. Courfeyrac doesn’t mention it. “So, our meddling friends. What did they promise _you_ with to come?”

“Nothing, actually. Thought it’d be fun.” Courfeyrac grins cheeky, leaning across the table. “I’m offended you were forced here. My company and radiant visage not enough?”

Combeferre leans across to meet him and plucks a dead leaf from his hair, showing it to Courfeyrac, who shows off a set of dimples. “I’m not usually fond of blind dates, you’ll have to forgive me. They never work out.”

Courfeyrac hums and picks up his menu, pretending to give it great consideration before peering over the top. “Usually?”

Combeferre shrugs one shoulder and doesn’t answer. No sense getting ahead of himself. This is far less awkward than he’d expected, much less than any of the ones Jehan’s set him up with before. In fact, Courfeyrac is nothing like Jehan described; much more open and light, taller than anticipated, and his skin has the warmth he sees mainly when visiting Spain. But this… might be fun, if nothing else.

And it _is_. They order, and then Courfeyrac is leaning close again, fascinated with his tattoos of the solar system up one arm. He pokes and prods certain lines, asking questions and nothing less than _fawning_ , honestly. They sip wine and pick at their dinner, more focused on talking about classes and interests and their friends.

“Bossuet is my matchmaker, so that’s why I was late,” Courfeyrac says around his bite, gesturing wildly with his fork. As if that means anything, and at Combeferre lifting an eyebrow, he elaborates, “He gave me the wrong address and then got your name wrong, too. But that may be error in translation from… Jehan, you said?”

And then later, Combeferre asking, “Wait so… you’re _not_ studying particle physics?”

“God no,” Courfeyrac answers, hand to his chest like the thought has frightened him half to death. “What on earth would give you that idea? I’m in the arts.”

“Oh. It’s just… Jehan said… never mind,” Combeferre says. He’s got a rising suspicion about all this, but is having too nice of a time to think too hard about it. He asks instead what section of the arts Courfeyrac is interested in and what he’s been doing with it thus far.

He was never planning on staying too long, wasn’t planning on getting so caught up in Courfeyrac’s sparkling eyes and the animated way he tells stores and often peppers speech with little, casual touches. But it’s hard not to, Courfeyrac _is_ a whirlwind. He stays for dessert, another glass of wine, long after their plates have been cleared away and Courfeyrac insists on paying to make up for his tardiness. They stay longer than most of the other patrons, until Combeferre notices their waiter giving them looks and gently redirecting Courfeyrac out onto the street.

Offering to walk him home is only polite, and has nothing to do with the way Courfeyrac throws his head back when he laughs and needs someone to fix his scarf periodically. And certainly not at all related to how Courfeyrac is a tactile person, and expectedly lets his hand brush Combeferre’s as they walk. They’ve had such a nice time Combeferre barely second-guesses reaching back, hands chilled with the low temperature but warm between their palms.

It’s easy. Courfeyrac is far too easy to be around, especially when he makes his intentions blindingly clear (Combeferre, with a track record for missing hints and openings, is pathetically relieved for this,) and smiles at Combeferre in that beseeching way he does. They take the long way through the park at Courfeyrac’s behest, and it’s well past dark when they find themselves at Courfeyrac’s doorstep.

They stand together, quiet and companionable for a long moment; Combeferre glancing up at the stars, and Courfeyrac glancing over at him.

“I had fun tonight,” Courfeyrac says, jostling Combeferre’s hand.

“Me too,” he admits. He can’t help returning the smile. Courfeyrac’s gaze flits down to his mouth, fast but unmistakable, and Combeferre inhales a little quick. _Oh._ “May I?” he asks, lifting his free hand to hover at the edge of Courfeyrac’s jaw, not quite touching. Not yet.

“God I wish you would,” Courfeyrac breathes out in a rush. And then they’re kissing, neither sure which moved first, just that Combeferre is careful, and Courfeyrac is humming and opening everything up faster than Combeferre usually does, but it’s not surprising somehow. It fits Courfeyrac.

Combeferre’s not thinking much at all after that. He pushes his fingers up into Courfeyrac’s curls, not tugging, and letting Courfeyrac coax his lips apart, letting Courfeyrac lead the kiss however he likes. It’s loose and warm, and while he wouldn’t label it sloppy or anything, it does remind him vaguely of the way Courfeyrac, barely put together, seemed carried in by a wild wind.

It’s a good kiss. A good kiss that turns into several, and then several more, until Courfeyrac is grinning into his mouth, warm hands somehow having found their way into Combeferre’s jacket against his ribs. He pulls away, and Combeferre almost doesn’t want to let him, but he does, breathing a touch heavy and caught on the color high on Courfeyrac’s cheeks under a near streetlight.

“Would you like to come up?” Courfeyrac asks. “For a drink or we could,” he swallows, seems to need a moment to catch his breath, glancing down at Combeferre’s mouth again, “could continue talking about that non-profit you mentioned. Or. Or something else.”

They’re very close, neither having let go of the other. Courfeyrac’s voice is barely above a murmur. It does something to Combeferre’s normally logical and wary thought process. “I wouldn’t… want to impose.” He remembers something about a roommate. And he really should go into the lab tomorrow morning if he wants to get a head start on his paper. And they just met, and while he’s far from prudish, maybe they should… wait? But he can’t think of a reason why, in this moment.

“Not an imposition. I would like it. Very much.” Courfeyrac kisses it into his mouth. “Marius is at his girlfriend’s anyway. It’s fine.”

“Oh,” Combeferre says intelligently. Warm seeps down beneath his shirt, and it takes a moment to separate it from Courfeyrac’s hands and realize it’s because he’s pleased—the contentment and excitement tentatively  unfurling low in his chest. “Alright. A drink… sounds nice.”

Courfeyrac grins oddly sharp at him, and pulls at his hands.

They do have a drink. Or, half of one, before Combeferre wants to kiss him again and Courfeyrac is happy to oblige. More than, by the way he turns it quick into something deeper, drawing Combeferre in so easy because it’s all Combeferre wants too. Courfeyrac likes to bite, he finds out, not hard. Teasing nips and scrapes against his mouth and neck alike, and when he shivers into it he finds out that he likes it too.

Not as much as he likes the soft sounds Courfeyrac makes, likes how much _Courfeyrac_ likes his hands.

Courfeyrac is the one to propel them down a hallway, into a bedroom, murmuring, “C’mon, Ferre… can I call you that?”

Combeferre nods; kisses Courfeyrac deeper, lets Courfeyrac turn it dirty and nearly smiles at the way it makes Courfeyrac laugh. He likes that sound too—the bright way he laughs. He nods again, either as added confirmation or unspoken appreciation for the way he laughs or even overwhelming consent for where this is headed, maybe all three, it doesn’t matter. He’s got his hands in Courfeyrac’s curls and against his neck, and Courfeyrac’s own hands are snaking down into his waistband, tugging his shirttails free.

It’s easy, so easy, to follow Courfeyrac’s pushing, to tumble down onto a bed together, Courfeyrac laughing and Combeferre grinning into his skin, hands wandering and their kisses following suit. Easier for Combeferre to roll them over, to pin Courfeyrac down because he goes so willingly, arching into all of it with a breathy sigh and lax limbs and a hungry expression in his eyes that’ve gone glassy and dilated.

“‘Ferre, ‘Ferre,” Courfeyrac whispers, a third attempt cut off stuttering when Combeferre shifts on his knees and grinds down against him. Even with their clothes on it’s good, a dull ache that spreads warmth like sparks.

“Hmm?”

Courfeyrac shakes his head, tugs at his pants again.

It’s all the invitation Combeferre needs.

 ~*~

When their heart beats start to slow, skin cooling from feverish to pleasantly warm to match the exhaustion in muscles and everywhere else, Courfeyrac shifts under Combeferre’s arm and asks, “So. What did _your_ friends offer to get you to go out with me?”

Combeferre blinks, thrown by the question and struggling to make his sluggish brain catch up. “You know. I don’t quite remember.”

Courfeyrac laughs, pleased as anything, and curls into him more.

~*~

Combeferre wakes before Courfeyrac, who’s starfished across Combeferre and the bed, his curls fanning out across the pillows in the same fashion. Combeferre just smiles in amusement at him, reaching to attempt to tame _something_ into place, but ultimately gets up to see if he can find and properly make some coffee.

He pulls on a pair of Courfeyrac’s sweats as he goes. The roommate is out, but it’d be incredibly presumptuous of him to parade around someone else’s apartment naked. And dangerous.

It’s a good thing he does, because as the coffee pot is just about finished there’s the sound of keys in the door and then it’s swinging open and _then_ an alarmed sort of sputtering from the mouth of the kitchen.

“Who… what’s going on! Who’re you? Are you robbing us?”

“Shirtless, darling? He’s probably with Courf.”

Combeferre turns, eyeing the freckled red-head and is instantly distracted by the girl on his arm. “Cosette. Lovely to see you.”

“Oh! ‘Ferre! Good morning!” She comes across the room for a hug, leaving her boyfriend confused and still looking frightened and like he’s expecting to be held up. He’s a bit like a fawn.

“I take it you’re the roommate,” Combeferre says to him, much less like a question than he intended. There’s no way he’s _not. “_ Marius?”

Marius nods, eyes still wide and bulging. “But who are _you?”_

“Darling, this is Combeferre,” Cosette says patiently. She looks between them, pinched expression lingering on Marius longer each time.

Combeferre understands all at once what it must be. “I’m… not the one Courfeyrac was intended to be on a blind date with.” Marius dumbly shakes his head. “That clears a few things up, then,” he says, and turns back to the pair of mugs he’d pulled down before being interrupted. “How does he take his coffee?”

“It’s the weekend, so milk, two sugars,” Marius rattles off.

“Thank you.” He doctors the coffee up as instructed, smiles at Cosette, and ambles back down the hall to wake up the wrong date.

Or, the right one. However he wants to look at it.

 


End file.
